Blood Brothers
by Nikki Noname
Summary: One-shot, Steve is never far away, but the memories are far too close. Post TWS.


**So I was supposed to be finishing my other fanfic, but I got distracted by Sebastian Stan's face. Oops.**

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He had been following him; everywhere the Soldier turned he could see streaks of red, white and blue, justice trailing his footsteps, no matter how fast he ran. Many of the memories had trickled slowly back into his brain, snippets of friendship, of war, of torture and guns and blood. With every good memory there were eight hundred awful ones.

One of the first things he recalled was a man named Howard Stark. They had been in Germany together, bonding with quick wit and alcohol. They got drunk and laughed about the women who were pining for them back home, talked about the small dreams they had for themselves. Stark had been not only an ally but a friend.

He recalled a man named Howard Stark being murdered. Through the vision of the Russian Killing Machine he had become, he had slaughtered his own comrade. Stark had been brave, had looked him straight in the eyes, knowing that the Soldier had no intention of letting him live.

Sometimes he thought he felt Howard's dry blood crusted under his fingernails, or perhaps it was the little girl he had killed in the mid 80s, or the nosy teenager he had suffocated just before the millennium.

His hands, his ugly hands, the ones gloved in cruelty and torture would never know love again. The brutality and inhumanness of them made him sick, and no matter how many times he scoured them with boiling water and soap, they remained drenched in pain. Then he had to deal with his weapon of an arm, and was tempted to rip the metal appendage away from the socket.

At this point, a gaping hole would be better.

When he could afford it, he would stay in a rundown motel, but even when he had a bed beneath him he could not sleep. He would find himself in the bathroom, glaring at the mirror,

"Bucky," He would whisper, looking hard at his reflection, trying to make the name fit with the man staring back at him. "Bucky."  
There was never the recognition he wanted, just fragmented flashes that broke the heart he didn't know he still had. Even if he was this Bucky, even if the dreams of baseball games and roller coasters were true – he was not that man anymore. He was a killer. A demon. A dark and sinister being that needed to be stopped.

He closed his eyes and pretended it didn't hurt.

The park he had chosen was spacious, littered with trees and flowerbeds, like the one he had dreamt about a few nights prior. _Central Park._ He had loved that park once.

No, this place wasn't half as big or half as beautiful, but it would have to do.

He didn't know much anymore, but he was certain that it needed to stop. This had to be the end.

He sat alone on a bench, cool in the frigid night air. The darkness was consuming, the cold numbing – and he longed to fade away right then, close his eyes and never have to open them again. His fingers, the real ones, the flesh and human ones, nudged gently against the handgun on the seat beside him. _Soon._

He sat, trying not to shiver and waited for the blonde man to come. If he could remember one thing, it was that Rogers was not one to give up.

Stubborn bastard.

Rain began to fall, the droplets catching in his hair and eyelashes. He clenched his teeth, rolled the muscles in his shoulders, thanking God that it wasn't snow.

He loathed the cold.

It wasn't until he was completely soaked that Captain America showed up, his jacket pulled tightly around his shoulders, blonde hair sticking to his forehead. He was not in uniform, wearing jeans and a shirt, looking like an average man. He stood before him, not as Captain America, but as Steve Rogers.

Their eyes met, and for a second it felt as though they were back in Nazi Germany; comrades, soldiers, friends.

The second passed, and the moment was lost.

The rain made small pinging noises as it hit his metal arm and he smiled bitterly at the blonde, his gaze trailing down to the robotic limb at his side.

"I keep thinking how scared Ma would be if she saw this thing," He muttered, flexing the metallic hand. "But I guess it's all pointless really. She died years ago."

Steve felt his heart twist in his chest,

"Bucky?" He whispered, taking a step closer to the man on the bench.

Steve couldn't help the optimism that welled in his chest, begging for Bucky to just remember, for Bucky to just come home. He presses his lips together because breathing hurt, the emotion crushing his lungs against his ribs.

The brunette smiled an agonizingly, his eyes watering with years of hate and anger and pain.

"I don't know why I ever went by that name," He said, clenching his armored fist, looking at it as if he had never seen it before. "It's awful."

Steve swallowed.

"Bucky," He said again, his eyes large and full of goddamned hope. "Bucky it's me. It's Steve."

Bucky felt tears slip down his cheeks, but he was quick to wipe them away. He had been too strong for too long, and now he couldn't control the crippling emptiness, the regret and guilt and depression that had rooted deep within his bones.

"I know. I'm sorry Steve," His voice broke and tears fell again, blending with the rain. "I'm so sorry."

Steve moved swiftly, grabbing the man and pulling him up into a strong embrace, his own tears falling as he regained a piece of himself he thought was long dead. Bucky closed his eyes, but resisted, pushing his once-friend away, hating himself for wanting the comfort, for needing it.

"Bucky, it's okay. You remember. We can fix this now, it can be like old times."

He turned his head to the side, eyes narrowing.

_It can be like old times._  
White-hot rage coursed through his veins, burning him like the acids Zola had filled him with all those years ago.

"It's okay?" He seethed, his breath shuddering in his chest, shaking his lungs. "It's _okay_?"  
"Everything will be okay, Buck. We can go home."

All those screaming people, all those innocents who had died by his hand.

"I'm a monster!" Bucky yelled, his voice echoing across the fields, catching in the damp grass and mud. He thought of all the death he had caused, feeling the blood on his hands, feeling it cover and drown him. "_Nothing will ever be okay!"_

_When they were young and innocent, they decided to be heroes. Bucky had left his house, unable to watch his mother drink herself to sleep in the late afternoon sun. He had watched her, swigging straight from the bottle, lazing on the sofa, completely out of it. Ever since his dad had left she had been like this, and it hurt him to see his mother so self-destructive. Whenever she drank, he would go and look for Steve, needing to escape._

_He had never been enough for his mother, but Steve needed him. Steve loved him and looked up to him, even when his own mother forgot his name._

_"I think we should be brothers." Bucky had said plainly when he and Steve had ventured onto the street. The shorter boy, with cropped blonde hair and a sickly pallor had grinned._

_"I thought we were already brothers?"_

_"Nah, we need to do it for real," Bucky had insisted, leading him behind the old snack shop. His hands had fumbled in his pockets, searching blindly for his father's pocket knife._

_"Why do you have that?" Steve asked, his thin lips bowing into a frown. The older of the two didn't reply, opening the knife instead._

_Bucky had clenched his teeth and slashed his palm with the blade, cringing slightly from the sting. He held out the knife to Steve, waiting for him to copy,_

_"You need to do it, too."_  
_The younger boy had asked no questions, trusting Bucky completely and dragging the knife across his hand in a similar fashion._

_"Ow."_

_"It's okay," Bucky said, and then held out his injured hand. "Shake it."_

_They clasped each others bloody palms, trying not to protest against the irritating burn._

_"What's this for?" Steve wondered, his blue eyes trained on the red sticky mess, slowly doubting Bucky's logic._

_"We're brothers for real now. Blood brothers."_

_Steve had grinned, forgetting the sting of his hand,_

_"I've always wanted you to be my brother," He confided._

_"Good." Bucky had said, folding the knife and stuffing it into his pocket. "Now you're stuck with me."_

Steve stepped forward again, trying to soothe the broken man before him. Bucky shook his head and retreated, keeping a distance between himself and his old best friend.

"You didn't know Bucky," Steve said, raising his hands as if in surrender. "It wasn't your fault."

The man's lip curled in disgust and his hands went to his overgrown hair, tugging harshly at the roots, trying to stop the deep ache in his chest, the knot in his stomach. He had to make Steve see how evil he was. He had to make Steve hate him as much as he hated himself.

"I killed Howard."

Steve faltered, blinking against the rain and confession.

"What?"

"I killed Howard Stark."

Steve's brows pulled together, hurt and bewilderment flitting across his face. His thoughts went immediately to Tony. How he had grown up resenting his father for not being there, for dying on him. He thought of Howard and Peggy and all the good times they had had together.

"Why?" Steve breathed, remembering how Bucky had found Howard hilarious. How Bucky had thought he was great.

"Because I was told to," He said angrily, scrubbing at the tears and rain that clung to his cheeks. "Because I'm a monster."

Steve tried to swallow against the lump that had formed in his throat, seeing Bucky like this was horrible; it made him feel like his skin had been ripped off, it made him feel raw.

"No, Buck. You didn't know. They brainwashed you."

"Don't you dare justify my actions!" He roared, stepping forward as if to fight, though any ferocity was lost when sobs ripped from out of his chest. He was a plague. A parasite. He deserved to die.

"Stop this," Steve muttered, his voice just barely audible above the down pour. "It wasn't your fault."

Of course it was his fault. He had pulled the trigger, he had stabbed and strangled and drowned these people, no one else. Of course it was his fault.

Bucky raised a shaking hand to his face, trying not to scream.

"Do you remember when you saved me and all those men from Hydra?" He whispered, wetting his lips despite the rain. He thought back to when Zola had experimented on him the first time, attempting to wipe him. But Steve had been there. Steve had rescued him. "I was so happy that you saved me, but at the same time I was so fucking sad, Steve."

Steve let out a long breath, his mind reeling, heart hammering. After chasing Bucky for months, he had not expected this. He had expected a fight, he had expected blood and fury and he was so unprepared for the tears and self-loathing he found instead.

"They finally saw you, Steve," Bucky said, his hand curling back into his hair. "They finally saw you, and I knew that you didn't need me anymore."  
Steve shook his head, confused and overwhelmed.

"What? Bucky, no. I always needed you. When you fell… I –" Steve broke off, not able to convey the excruciating loss he had felt when he thought he had lost his best friend.

"I used to tell people you were my brother," Bucky said bitterly, the nostalgia sour because it reminded him of what he could never have again. "But you didn't need me Steve. Not like before, and it really hurt."

"You were all I had, Bucky," Steve voice was thick. "I'll always need my brother."

Bucky shook his head, and tried swallow his sadness.

"No. You didn't need me then, not really." He told him, voice trembling. "And you don't need me now."

"Stop this. I need my brother."

Bucky winced when Steve advanced again, the remorse collecting and amounting in an awful lump in his chest.

"He died when he fell from that train. He's gone."

"No. You're right here. You're not dead."

"But I should be," Bucky gasped, his atrocities flashing behind his eyelids, taunting him.

He had been good once. He had wanted to save lives and fight for his country, he had been noble and courageous and loyal. He had once believed in God, but he knew that even if he tried everyday for the rest of his life, God would never forgive him for his deeds.

"I can't lose you again," Steve growled, "Like you said. We're brothers, and I won't lose you a second time."  
Bucky bore his teeth,

"I am not the man from Coney Island, or the kid from Brooklyn. I'm a murderer. I'm less than worthless. You didn't need me then, Steve. You don't need me now."

Unable to control his anger, Steve stormed forward and grabbed the front of Bucky's tattered uniform.

"You're my brother," He told him.

"I'm not," Bucky said, his tearful gaze meeting Steve's in anger and defiance.

"You're my family."

Bucky remembered the scientists at Hydra talking about him. They spoke as if he wasn't there, because in their minds Bucky did not exist. He was not a person. He was a machine.

_"He's a beast," The ginger man had said, scrutinizing him from the lab table. His white coat was a size too big, and he had folded the sleeves to accommodate his short arms. "I once felt sorry for him, but he doesn't deserve pity, he deserves a bullet –" The man's finger trailed up his head, stopped on the upper bridge of his nose. "Right between the eyes."_

_Bucky had blinked, for while the comment did not hurt him, the humiliation that followed such an insult left a nasty sting on his ego._

_The ginger scientist had been found in a ditch a week later; a gunshot wound leaving an ugly hole between his brown eyes._

He looked at Steve, the word family twisting the knife deeper into his abdomen.

"I have no family," Bucky replied.

"You have me," Steve insisted, daring to shake the man's shoulders, both metal and skin. "I can help you."

Bucky hated himself and he hated Steve because for some reason he saw goodness where there was none.

"I came here to ask a favor of you," Bucky said, ignoring the warmth that spread from where Steve's hand gripped his shoulder.

"Anything," He promised before he could stop himself.

"Swear it."

"I swear," Steve whispered, eyes locked on the man before him.

Bucky looked at him and nodded. He reached down to where he stored his gun, slowly pulling it from his pocket.

Betrayal flashed in Steve's eyes when he saw the weapon, and his hands moved into a blocking stance. Bucky ignored his change in posture and extended his arm, the living one, to his once-brother, the gun resting in his palm.

"You always loved justice," Bucky grinned blandly, offering the loaded pistol. Steve shook his head, eyeing at the gun in such a way that it made him look twelve years old again.

"I don't understand," He said, though his hand reached up and took the weapon from Bucky's hand.

"Kill me," Bucky pleaded, slipping to his knees and landing onto the sodden footpath with little grace.

"I don't understand," Steve repeated, but this time Bucky could hear the tears in his voice.

"I spent so many years dodging bullets – it's only fair that the one that kills me comes from someone good."

"I won't kill you, Bucky," Steve cried, dropping the gun to the ground. It made a small splash in a puddle, droplets of dirty water spraying the Captain's shoes.

"You swore," Bucky reminded him, his voice choked. "Please Steve."

Steve looked into the haunted eyes of his best friend and felt something deep inside him break. Bucky was the best man he knew, and here he was, so disturbed and lost that he was asking his own brother to end his life. Whatever happened to _I'm with you to the end of the line?_

"Lines don't end," Steve growled, dropping down on his knees so that they were facing each other. "You can't give up."

"I've hurt so many people." Bucky looked away, shame gathering like storm clouds. "I've hurt you."

"Yes," Steve admitted, but his hand clutched Bucky's forearm, trapping him in a vice like grip. "And it'll kill me if you die. I can't survive that again, Buck."  
Bucky shuddered and tried to suppress a sob,

"I don't want to hurt you."

"Then don't do this," The blonde man whispered. "Live, fight, be my brother."

Self loathing rose again, like bile in his mouth, hatred warring with desperation,

"You don't want a brother like me."

"Bucky," Steve laughed, his lip trembling and eyes bright with salt water. "That's all I've ever wanted."

There was no change in expression, no indication of any deal. The rain kept falling and the chill of the night continued to bury into their skin. The disgust nestled in Bucky's heart and the love burrowed in Steve's did not falter, but in the frosty park, with their gazes locked, they made silent vows.

For even when their veins ran dry, they would always be blood brothers.


End file.
